


It's All for a Saturday Night

by MachaSWicket



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 15:55:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1863645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  Um... Veronica, Logan, Rogue, Wolverine.  In a bar in the Canadian Rockies. Title from the Rolling Stones' "Fight," which I guess is its own kind of summary.  </p><p>SPOILERS:  Through the Veronica Mars movie, and through... well, really just X-Men and maybe X2, though in the <i>Days of Future Past</i> flexible timeline of my desire. ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All for a Saturday Night

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: _Veronica Mars_ belongs to Warner Bros. and Rob Thomas; _X-Men_ belongs to Marvel and Fox. 
> 
> THANKS: to Em and katelinnea for reading some/all of this and _not_ telling me I'm an insane person. And to the denizens of tumblr for the encouragement -- I'm still really sorry. ;)

Blowout fights with Veronica weren’t really Logan’s thing anymore. Or their thing. In truth, they were surprisingly, somewhat disgustingly stable. (Everywhere but the bedroom, anyway, where she could still leave him totally off-balance with just a look; it was fucking ridiculous. Not that he was complaining.) 

But every once in a while -- and usually just before he left on deployment, or during their readjustment to each other after his return -- things could get a little… _tense_. They both recognized why they were sniping at each other, but that didn’t make it any less fucking frustrating. After his last couple deployments, they’d taken advantage of his two weeks of leave to go somewhere tropical and beachy, where they could both find other things to do on the rare occasion they needed a break from doing each other. 

This time, though...

Well, the frozen hinterlands of western Canada -- that was Veronica’s brilliant idea. And he may have missed her like crazy during his four and a half months away, but they were ready to _kill_ each other after four days in a cabin so fucking rustic he’d been relieved to find working toilets when they checked in. There was literally nothing to do -- no satellite TV, no PlayStation, no board games, nothing. 

What a glorious homecoming.

“Go, Navy,” he muttered, trudging across the frozen parking lot in shoes that were designed for Southern California, not the goddamn Canadian Rockies. He pulled his coat more tightly around himself, feeling the chill all the way to his bones. 

The town Veronica had chosen probably should have been more accurately called a village. Or: a sad, ramshackle collection of barely livable cabins; a dingy general store like the goddamned 1950s were alive and well here; a questionable diner; and the diviest dive bar Logan had ever seen.

And he’d been on leave in some scary fucking places around the world. 

But he pushed through the doors anyway, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the dim, smoke-filled interior. Really awful country music droned through speakers that had to be at least a few generations behind the sound system he had back home. In short -- the ambiance in this place _sucked_. 

Still, there were a surprising number of people inside, considering the size of Veronica’s “resort town,” which suggested to Logan that these were mostly townies. Or, whatever, mountain-cabin-dwellers. 

Easing through the crowd, Logan shrugged out of his overcoat and slid onto the first open stool, sighing when he realized there were no hooks. He folded his jacket and hung it on the rung of his bar stool, adding the inevitable dry cleaning bill to his running tally of things Veronica owed him to make up for fucking Canada. He was tempted to launch into a rousing chorus of _Blame Canada_ , but figured it wouldn’t be well-received.

Instead, Logan settled onto his stool and evaluated the crowd. He’d ended up in between a plaid-wearing, scruffy-bearded older man (surely one of the aforementioned mountain-cabin-dwellers) and a brunette who looked strangely comfortable in this backwoods hellhole, considering the cosmopolitan platinum blonde streaks in her hair and knee high black leather boots. Something about her energy reminded Logan a bit of Mac.

She was pretty, with wide, warm brown eyes, and she shifted under his scrutiny, glancing over at him. “Can I help you?” she asked, with a tilt of her head.

He quirked an eyebrow at her Southern accent, unable to resist the line, drenched with an appropriately large helping of sarcasm. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

She smirked. “I’m from Mississippi, sugar, I’m a Sagittarius, and I’m not interested.” She lifted her beer bottle to her lips and took a long, healthy swig.

Dipping his chin, Logan said, “Fair enough.” He turned to the bartender, a woman in her fifties with faded tattoos up and down her arms. “Whisky, neat.” While he waited for the drink, he glanced back at the Mississippi Sagittarius. “You kind of remind me of someone.”

She laughed outright, a delightful sound. “You’re pretty bad at this.”

“You know,” he answered, accepting his whisky with a nod of thanks to the bartender, “I _might_ be offended if I were actually trying to hit on you.” He leaned closer, lowered his voice, and made a face like he was embarrassed for her. “But I’m not.”

Which was true, but Logan Echolls had never met a woman he didn’t enjoy flirting with, regardless of his ultimate intentions.

She seemed skeptical, though. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she scoffed, “am I supposed to be your plausible cover story so you can snuggle up to Earl?”

The plaid-and-grizzly beard guy on Logan’s other side -- Earl, apparently -- turned his head toward Logan. “‘Scuse me?”

“Nothing,” Logan assured him quickly, then carefully angled himself more fully toward the woman on his other side. “Let’s start over. Hi, I’m Logan,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m in a happy, stable relationship, and I am not trying to get in your--” He faltered briefly, glancing down at the vast expanse of stocking-covered leg between her skirt and her boots, “well, your skirt. Though,” he added, letting his appreciation for her form shine through, “I am a _big_ fan of the short skirt/tall boots aesthetic. Tell me, do you also have a loooooong jacket?” 

She evaluated him for a moment, then held out one gloved hand. “Nice to meet you, Logan.” Her lips curved on his name, and he wasn’t sure why. “I’m Marie.”

He shook her hand, turned his wrist ever-so-slightly as he looked at her gloves. “Cold?”

Her smile faded the slightest bit. “It’s winter.”

“In the fucking Rockies,” he agreed. “I did notice that. Well, Marie,” he added. “Do me a favor and warn me if you see a tiny, enraged blonde woman heading my direction.” Because Veronica Mars would stay alone in that room pretending to read for only _so_ long before she came after him. And he was pretty sure the diner was closed for the night, so her super-sleuthing skills should lead her pretty quickly to the bar.

“Ahh,” Marie answered, shifting on her barstool. She took a long pull from her bottle, then placed it back on the bar, turning it in slow circles. “So that’s why you’re here. Kicked out of the cabin?”

“Mmm,” he said, remembering the murderous look on Veronica’s face when he reached for the door. “Stormed out.” Though, in his defense, she _had_ told him to leave her the fuck alone for five fucking seconds. So.

Marie watched him, and Logan thought she might be amused by the situation. “You regretting it yet?” she asked.

“With this company?” he shot back, enjoying the banter, letting himself savor positive attention with no ulterior motives. He was pretty sure they didn’t have modern things like TVs up here, so the likelihood that Marie had the slightest clue who he was -- or would _care_ if she found out -- was delightfully small. “I don’t regret a thing.”

With a knowing laugh, Marie glanced over his shoulder before she answered. “Come on, now, sugar -- we both know that’s not true.”

She was distracted, suddenly, and Logan fought the urge to look behind him, half expecting the feel of Veronica’s hands sliding possessively around his waist. If she _did_ find him here chatting up a gorgeous brunette -- well, he’d get to savor a glimpse of her jealous streak, and the makeup sex might be even better than normal. Which wasn’t at all why he turned the charm up a notch and grinned at Marie. “If I’m gonna pay for it later, why not enjoy a drink in the company of a beautiful woman in the meantime?”

Marie looked past him again, a half-smile on her lips. 

Logan leaned three inches sideways, just enough to block her line of sight to whatever non-Veronica person or thing she was paying attention to. “Am I boring you?”

Her gaze locked with his, eyebrows lifting a bit in surprised amusement. “Not at all,” she said after a beat. “Though I’m starting to question your decision-making abilities.”

Logan straightened and glanced over his shoulder to figure out what she was talking about, but he saw nothing but townies. Townie, townie, townie -- oh. 

A man leaned insolently against the -- giant cage? in the middle of the bar? what the fuck, Canada? -- wearing jeans and, bizarrely, a leather jacket over a denim jacket over some kind of button-down shirt. In addition to a puzzling amount of jackets, the guy had actual muttonchops -- like Logan had bumped his head and woken up in _Civil War-era_ Canada -- and incongruously styled hair. Like, hair that must require about the same amount of gel as Logan’s high-school surfer spikes look. 

And Jacket Guy was glowering directly at Logan.

He turned back to Marie and pulled a face. “He seems pleasant.”

Marie started to laugh. “Oh, honey,” she said, “you have no idea.”

& & &

Marie should have seen it coming as soon as the guy bellied up next to her at the bar.

She probably should’ve tried harder to intervene, but in her defense, Logan -- _her_ Logan -- hadn’t had a good fight in a while, and had been looking forward to the cage. Hell, they’d driven five hours in resentful silence just to get to this hellhole on time. And she knew how it went -- get Logan pissed off, put Logan in the cage for some fights, and enjoy a night of excellent, adrenaline-fueled sex once he took the edge off with violence. 

And while Logan had been pretty growly and unreasonable today, it hadn’t yet boiled over into _anger_ , and, well, then this tall, lanky, rich boy slid onto the barstool beside her, and who could blame her for making the best of the situation? 

It was pretty easy to push Logan’s buttons, particularly when it came to Marie talking to a tall, slim, arrogant man with honey brown hair. Guaranteed meltdown. Which was ridiculous, considering how long ago and how briefly she and Remy were a thing. Blond All-American Bobby types didn’t faze Logan at all, but something about Remy got right up under his skin.

So, okay, maybe she should’ve backed off a bit when she saw Logan emerge from the poker game out back. She could tell from the clench of his jaw on his cigar that he’d done only okay, and he _hated_ losing money at cards. The moment his eyes locked on her and this new, tall, arrogant man she was chatting up, Logan’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. She quirked an eyebrow at him, inviting him closer with the slight lift of her chin.

He gave a brief shake of his head, even as The Other Logan leaned into her line of sight and made everything just a little bit worse.

Logan was glowering by then, and she knew he was itching to curl his hands into fists just from the way he was standing, hip cocked, arms akimbo. But the fights were about to start, so she stayed put. Figured any trace of The Other Logan’s cologne on her might push him a little too far.

Men. She shook her head.

“What’s with all the jackets?”

Marie’s gaze snapped back to The Other Logan, who was smirking as he cocked a thumb in Logan’s general direction. Marie felt a flare of irritation -- _she_ could make fun of Logan, but it rubbed her the wrong way if anyone else did it -- and she gave The Other Logan a half-shrug. “It’s cold out there.”

He looked positively delighted when he said, “They make jackets with actual liners these days. Parkas, even,” he added, making a strangely expansive gesture with his hands for emphasis. “you know, for people who actually _want_ to spend time in the mountains.”

Marie glanced pointedly at his shoes. His undoubtedly expensive and wholly-inappropriate-for-the-climate brown leather shoes with slick, flat soles. 

He waved her point off. “Yeah, but I wasn’t in charge of selecting this particular location.” He lifted his whisky, sipping slowly as he scanned the bar.

Marie wanted to respond but the bartender pounded twice on the bar for quiet and raised her voice. “Fights start now,” Freddie announced. “Hundred to buy in. Bets up here at the bar. The Wolverine’s up first.”

Even before the crowd noise resumed, The Other Logan was laughing helplessly, leaning an elbow on the bar to keep himself upright. He looked at Marie, liquid brown eyes sparkling with amusement, and managed, “What the fuck kind of stage name is _Wolverine_?”

“It’s _The_ Wolverine,” Marie corrected, ice in her voice now. 

The Other Logan was all but chortling. “My apologies,” he said, dipping his head and tilting one hand in a strange approximation of a bow, “I’m a few issues behind on _Who’s Who In Canadian Barfighting_.”

Marie glanced at Logan, who was shedding his jackets while glaring at her, steam practically coming out of his ears. “Shit,” she muttered. Because Logan was coming over here, and he was already so ramped up he might pound on The Other Logan a little bit just as a warm up. Just because he was sitting here with her and laughing.

She loved the shit out of Logan, but his possessive streak got a little irritating sometimes. Unfortunately for her, she was enough like Logan that her irritation almost inevitably turned to arousal, particularly if she was pissed at him.

The Other Logan’s laughter had stopped, and he studied her, eyes narrowed. “Interesting,” he decided.

“What’s that, sugar?” she asked, but she couldn’t look away from her Logan. Not when he was smoldering with rage and starting in her direction. She could feel the flush in her cheeks, and wondered if they had time to slip somewhere a little more private before the first fight, maybe work off--

“Organized bar fights, huh?” The Other Logan said, glancing at the queue of men signing up. “Jesus, it must be a long, boring winter up here.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Marie answered, pulling herself from pleasantly lustful thoughts about her hot-ass boyfriend. “Just passing through.” Marie watched Logan lift his shirt and tank top over his head as he strode closer, shifting his shoulder when his dog tags got tangled up in the necklines and landed funny against his skin.

Goddamn, he shouldn’t be able to leave her dry-mouthed and lusting with just a look.

The Other Logan must have seen something in her face, because he turned on his stool just as Logan reached them, eyes widening a bit. _Yeah_ , Marie thought, relishing the feral grace in Logan’s movements, _my man does hide his light under a lot of jackets_. She skimmed her gaze down his torso, grinning. _Or, more accurately, under an enormous pewter belt buckle_.

Her man kept his attention focused solely on her, his hazel eyes boring into hers. “Mind holding my clothes, darlin’?” he rasped, and she could feel that hard edge of anger all the way down her spine. There was something _wrong_ with her, for sure.

“Anything you need, sugar,” she answered, her voice low and a little rough. “You know that.” She leaned in for his kiss, which was amusingly possessive, mostly, she knew, for The Other Logan’s benefit.

Logan broke away from her and ran his fingers down her platinum streak so she could get herself under control. She shuddered, and he gave her a self-satisfied smirk, then stepped toward the cage. Logan paused, half-turned, and gave her new friend a contemptuous look. “Don’t have the balls for it, or don’t have the cash?”

The Other Logan straightened up, an unexpectedly vicious look on his face as he glared back at Logan. “Excuse me?”

Marie was a little impressed, almost in spite of herself. The Other Logan had struck her as more of a pampered fish out of water in this bar, someone who’d back down from the raw power _her_ Logan was currently exuding. The Other Logan didn’t seem intimidated, which she thought was either really brave or _really_ stupid.

Logan crossed his arms over his bare chest, and when he spoke, it was with that sniping tone usually reserved for needling Scott. “Just wondering whether you’re low on cash or courage.”

“Logan,” Marie tried, but they were both ignoring her now in favor of glaring at each other. She rolled her eyes and waved to get Freddie’s attention. “Another one, please.”

“Well,” The Other Logan said, biting sarcasm in his voice, “I’ve never been asked to _pay_ for the privilege of kicking someone’s ass in a bar before. Always seemed to be more _organic_ than this pay-for-ass-kicking thing you’re pushing.” He clapped his hands together once in false exuberance. “These backwoods Canadian customs are so _charming_.” 

Marie’s Logan smirked and started to turn away, but The Other Logan reached for his wallet and snarked, “I assume that in addition to all this pastel Monopoly money, you also accept American currency.”

Logan jerked his head in the general direction of the bartender. “Not my call, Bub. Ask Freddie.”

Marie sighed. “Logan, this is a bad idea.” _Neither_ of them spared her a glance, they were so hopped up on testosterone. She took a long swallow of her beer, wondering if she should warn The Other Logan that he was getting in way over his head.

But Logan was already halfway to the cage, and The Other Logan pushed himself off the barstool to follow. He hesitated, and Marie wondered if his common sense was finally starting to catch up with his mouth. But he simply glanced at her and then back at the cage, before yanking his dark blue henley over his head.

Marie’s eyes widened in appreciation. _Well, well_. The Other Logan’s upper body was nearly as sculpted as her Logan’s -- though The Other Logan had a leaner, lankier build. Still, he was clearly in excellent shape; assuming he had some fighting experience, The Other Logan might just be overmatched, instead of _wildly_ overmatched.

By force of habit, she glanced further south, half-expecting to see a ridiculously oversized belt buckle, but The Other Logan had… what looked like some kind of grappling hook instead of a normal belt? The hell? She fought the impulse to lean closer for a better look -- that would _not_ go over well with Logan.

Marie leaned back, her attention catching belatedly on The Other Logan’s dog tags. They looked like typical American military dog tags, and she opened her mouth to ask for confirmation when The Other Logan tossed five twenties on the bar and raised his voice to get Freddie’s attention. “I’m up first,” he announced, his tone determined.

The look Freddie gave him in return was a comical mix of skepticism and amusement, but she swept the twenties into her pile of cash and nodded. “Good luck.”

Marie sighed, realizing neither one of the Logans were going to be reasonable about this. They both had their hackles up, and they were apparently enough alike that they’d rather beat the shit out of each other than back down. She watched The Other Logan head toward the cage, his movements athletic and almost graceful. “Yeah,” she said, though he was too far away to hear her. “Good luck.”

As the cage clanked shut behind The Other Logan, something bright near the door caught Marie’s attention. She turned and saw -- Shit. 

A tiny, enraged blonde woman. Perfect.

& & &

Wolverine didn’t bother putting too much energy into the beginnings of the fight with this smug asshole. Guy looked a little bit thrown now that he was in the cage, surrounded by loud, jeering, drunken Canadians. Probably just now realizing the scope of his mistake. Wolverine swallowed a frustrated growl and tried to be patient. Wouldn’t be as much fun to kick his fucking ass if the smug asshole wasn’t trying. 

They were still circling each other, sizing each other up, sparring lightly, and, really, Wolverine wouldn’t muster much effort until his mark got a few shots in. Gotta make it look like a moderately fair fight. Plus, it usually helped with _psychological_ beatdown if the other guy thought he’d landed some hard punches before Wolverine shook it off like nothing. That _what the fuck?_ look -- it was one of Wolverine’s favorite things about the cage.

Not that he spent a lot of time on the circuits anymore. First, because there weren’t many around, and Marie didn’t always have the patience for bouncing between mountain hamlets in the dead of winter. Second, he usually had better shit to do. Like Marie.

Only sometimes, when the nightmares were real bad, or when he couldn’t get out of his damn head for five fucking seconds -- times like that, best thing for it was the mindless adrenaline rush of a fight. And Scott was too much of a fucking pussy to fight him anymore. 

You kick a guy’s ass like thirty times and suddenly he won’t fight you.

But this smug asshole -- he had those same pretty boy cheekbones as Scott. Or as Remy. Wolverine did growl this time, low and frustrated, and lashed out, but Smug Asshole ducked out of the way in time.

“Your girl’s pretty,” Smug Asshole said, smirking the self-satisfied smirk of the well-off. Wolverine decided Smug Asshole had a very punchable face. The guy danced to his left, moving more confidently in the ring now. “Weird taste in men, though,” he added, giving Wolverine a disapproving once over.

Wolverine sneered. “You think so, huh?”

Smug Asshole shrugged, all insolence and that privileged placidity that made Wolverine fucking crazy. Guy walked around like the world owed him something, no fucking idea how well he had it. 

Wolverine’s hands curled into fists, and he could feel the blades just itching to make their acquaintance with this Smug Asshole’s vital organs. But this wasn’t that kind of fight. Goddammit. 

“Logan, stop!”

Both men froze, turning toward a tiny blonde woman banging her palm against the cage to get their attention over the general din of the crowd and some classic Johnny Cash. _Folsom Prison Blues_ , Wolverine noted absently, _nice_.

Wolverine raked the blonde with his gaze -- small, hot, fiesty. And paying him no attention. He cut a glance to his opponent, who was staring back at the blonde with his dumbass heart on his fucking sleeve. Figurative sleeve, since he wasn’t actually wearing a shirt. Whatever. Smug Asshole was clearly at this hot blonde’s beck and call.

Reflexively, Wolverine glanced at Marie, who was leaning back against the bar and giving him a disappointed look. He frowned. What the fuck was she mad about?

The hot blonde curled her fingers into the chicken wire, her attention fixed on the Smug Asshole. “Logan,” she repeated, her expression still mostly shock, though Wolverine was pretty sure she had a temper under there and it was about to come out full force. “What are you _doing_?”

Wolverine had no fucking clue who she was or why she was yelling his name. (That happened sometimes -- amnesia was a bitch.) He took a step toward the blonde. “The fuck are you?” he demanded.

She turned her attention to him, tilting her head a bit and giving him what Marie and Jubilee referred to as _massive bitchface_. “Who the fuck are _you_?” she shot back, and he grinned despite himself. Because he liked ‘em fiesty.

Before Wolverine could answer, Smug Asshole grabbed his arm and tried to wrench him away from the blonde. It didn’t work, obviously, and Smug Asshole stepped around him instead, putting himself between Wolverine and the blonde before reaching out to brush his fingers against hers. Like some lovesick puppy. Wolverine’s grin turned arrogant.

“Veronica,” Smug Asshole said, “don’t worry. It’s just--”

“You busy,” Wolverine snarled, “or can we get this going?” Because his adrenaline was singing and his knuckles itched to punch Smug Asshole right in the face.

Smug Asshole turned his attention back to Wolverine with a vicious sneer. “The fuck kind of fake-ass dog tag is that, anyway?” he demanded, gesturing at Wolverine’s chest.

Wolverine stilled, muscles coiled and ready. “Why don’t you step a little closer and ask me again, Bub.”

Instead, Smug Asshole attacked. He came at Wolverine with control and a plan, moving them both to the other side of the lopsided octagon and away from his girl. Wolverine recognized that he’d been trained; probably close combat skills from the military. Didn’t make much difference to Wolverine -- he’d still kick the guy’s ass -- but he might acquire a couple new tricks along the way. 

Wolverine absorbed a couple punches, felt his adrenaline kick up another notch, and then he countered. Two quick hits at maybe 75% effort to Smug Asshole’s ribs, then a rough knee to his stomach that dropped him to all fours.

Wolverine stood over Smug Asshole, breathing hard, fists clenched, waiting for him to get back up. He’d just barely gotten started, and he was formulating a plan for Smug Asshole’s pretty face.

“Hey! Logan! _Other_ Logan.”

Wolverine glanced to his left -- the hot blonde again, and this time she was looking directly at him, ice blue eyes flashing. 

“Yeah, _you_ ,” she said, crooking her finger at him. “Why don’t you come over here and talk to me?”

Wolverine took three steps closer to her, swaggering in that way he had when he was trying to disarm an angry woman. Worked on most of ‘em, ‘cept Marie. “See something you like?”

“Not really,” the blonde answered, sickly sweetness over venom. She practically batted her damn lashes up at him. “And I just wanted to let you know if you hurt him, I will end you.”

Wolverine felt his eyebrows lift, knew he was making what Marie called his pole-axed face. “Excuse me?” he demanded, starting to laugh.

“I think you heard me just fine,” she answered, and she glanced behind him.

Wolverine whirled to his right, out of the reach of Smug Asshole’s attack, and watched, breathing hard, as the blonde reached through the chicken wire to make a swipe for Smug Asshole’s jeans. He paused, throwing a quick glance to Wolverine before squatting briefly to say something to his girl.

Wolverine looked over at Marie again, and as soon as he made eye contact, she slid off of her stool and moved closer, weaving carefully through the crowd to the edge of the cage. Surprised she was putting herself in the midst of the jostling crowd to talk to him, he took four quick steps and squatted down so they were about eye-level. “What’s wrong, darlin’?”

“Don’t hurt him.”

Wolverine glared at her. “‘Scuse me?” Because why the fuck should she care what happens to some rich little Remy clone?

“Logan,” Marie said, voice low. “Fight him, sure, but don’t _hurt_ him. Please?”

“Why are you askin’ me this?”

She smiled. “He kinda reminds me of you.”

“ _What_?”

And then Marie was laughing, and he glowered at her, but she just pointed behind him and said, “Careful.”

Wolverine felt the rush of Smug Asshole’s attack and turned into it, reengaging in the fight.

& & &

Probably the last thing in the entire world Veronica expected to find upon entering this little dive bar was her mostly grown-up, mostly reformed, mostly calm boyfriend _shirtless in a cage fighting another shirtless guy_.

Cagefighting! 

Like… _cagefighting_ was a thing that existed in the world (or at least in Canada), and her boyfriend was -- apparently willingly -- participating?

She was a little ashamed that her initial shock was replaced first and foremost by a kick of serious lust. Because _holy shit_ did Logan look good, circling the ring like a panther, his muscles all taut and ready, jeans riding low on his hips, and barefoot. (The other guy was, you know, not at all hard to look at, either, but she probably wouldn’t mention that to Logan.)

Then common sense kicked in and she moved toward the cage, a little panicky and desperate to stop whatever was going to happen. Because she was sure it wouldn’t be anything good -- bruises and broken bones meant she’d end up the angry caretaker. The angry, _horny_ caretaker, because he’d probably break a fucking rib and be sexually incapacitated for _weeks_ , and he’d only just gotten back and what the _actual fuck_ did he think he was doing?

Goddamnit, she was pissed off.

But then the circling escalated to punching -- sparring, maybe -- and she banged on the cage. It didn’t escape her notice that both men turned when she yelled, “Logan.” What were the odds that the two well-built, shirtless men fighting in a cage in the middle of nowhere in Canada were named Logan?

Ridiculous.

But she threatened the _wrong_ Logan and pleaded with the right Logan, and they both ignored her and they were _still_ fighting. Logan actually told her not to worry, which was fucking rich, and then he added something about making a profit. She decided she was going to kill him herself if Wrong Logan didn’t do it first. To her untrained eye, the venom she’d seen on both men’s faces when she walked in seemed to be gone, but it was clear that _her_ Logan was not going to win.

“Fuck,” she muttered, glancing around for help. Her gaze caught on the brunette she’d seen talking to Wrong Logan, and she pushed her way through the crowd without really considering what she should say. “Is that your boyfriend?” she demanded. Other than the bartender, there weren’t actually that many other women in the bar, so it was a reasonable deduction.

The brunette turned surprised eyes her way, then started to smile. “You must be Logan’s girlfriend,” she drawled in a soft, Southern accent. “He told me to be on the lookout for an angry blonde.”

Veronica hated the sick flash of jealousy the other woman’s words caused, wanted badly to snark something about _did he tell you I could make your life hell?_ but she swallowed it back. She pointed to the sparring men. “Can you call off your Logan, please?”

The brunette quirked an eyebrow, amused and maybe a bit offended. “Can you call off _yours_?”

Veronica blew out a frustrated breath. “Goddamnit. What is he _thinking_?”

“He’s not,” the brunette answered easily, her admiring eyes on Wrong Logan. “They’re being stupid. But they sure look good doin’ it.”

“I’ll kill him if he gets hurt,” Veronica vowed, her fingers curling into the chicken wire. Chicken wire! Her boyfriend was fighting in a bar in a _cage made of chicken wire_. She didn’t know how she would possibly explain this to anyone. She didn’t know how Logan would explain it to his XO. “Fuck, he’ll be grounded.” She leaned her forehead against the chicken wire, searching desperately for a way to stop this.

“Grounded?” the brunette echoed, sounding incredulous. “You _ground_ your boyfriend?”

Veronica gave her a blistering look, more than willing to turn her rage on a convenient target. “He’s a _Navy pilot_. He just got back from a four-and-a-half month deployment, and he can’t fly with broken bones.”

To Veronica’s surprise, the brunette seemed taken aback. “Shit,” she said, turning a worried look back at the men, who were grappling at this point, arms half-wrapped around each other, trying to push each other backwards into the cage for some leverage.

Veronica was torn between watching in horror as Wrong Logan slammed her boyfriend into the chicken wire, and glaring at this random brunette in a random bar who’d apparently become fast friends with Logan in the, like, _hour_ he’d been in here.

Before she could decide which course to take, the brunette was banging on the chicken wire. “Logan!” she shouted. 

Again, both men glanced their way, and Veronica felt that hit of lust again -- bare, sweaty chest, heavy breathing, Logan’s face all flushed with exertion. “There’s something wrong with me,” she muttered, fanning herself. She didn’t miss the amused quirk of Logan’s lips in reaction, and glared back at him, indicating the heavy winter coat she was still wearing with a sarcastic wave of her hand. He seemed unconvinced.

Wrong Logan gave Logan a warning look, then moved over to them, leaning down slightly, one hand against the cage for support. “What, Marie?” he sounded pissed.

Marie narrowed her eyes up at Wrong Logan. “He’s in the Navy, Logan. Active duty pilot. If he’s injured, he won’t be able to fly.”

Wrong Logan’s gaze snapped to Veronica, then back to Marie. “Maybe he should’ve considered that before he jumped in the cage,” he answered gruffly.

“Maybe _you_ should’ve considered the fact that he’s just a guy I was talking to and not _competition_ before you goaded him into the cage,” Marie shot back.

Veronica blinked, then glared up at Wrong Logan. “You goaded him?” Great, now Logan wouldn’t back down until they dragged him out of the cage on a fucking stretcher.

Wrong Logan cut his gaze to her briefly, and if she didn’t know better, she’d think he looked maybe a little… embarrassed? “Fine,” he grit out, his gaze on Marie but the words meant for both of them, “he can forfeit.”

“Logan,” Marie shot back. “I’m sure there’s an empty cabin I can rent.”

Veronica looked past them, locking eyes with _her_ Logan where he stood in the center of the cage, still breathing a little hard, hands on his hips. He gave her a half-smile, but she could tell from the slightly feral look in his eyes that he was still in an adrenaline-fueled rage. She shook her head and yelled, “Navy.”

It worked, at least a little -- Logan blinked, his smile fading a bit. 

Beside her, Marie and Wrong Logan were arguing in low, rough voices, and Veronica was about 98% sure that Marie had threatened to withhold sex if Wrong Logan didn’t call off the fight. Which was -- well, _Lysistrata_ was probably the only Greek play that Veronica had actually enjoyed reading in high school, so, good for Marie.

Wrong Logan pushed away from the cage with a vicious -- was that a _growl_? -- and walked back toward Logan. And, because they were both being stupid, Wrong Logan jarred Logan’s shoulder as he stalked across the center of the ring and over to the door.

“Freddie,” Wrong Logan yelled. “It’s a draw.” He glanced back at Logan, who just looked confused.

Veronica’s mood lifted for a moment, and she let out her breath in a woosh. Then she saw that familiar smug grin on Logan’s face and groaned when he opened his mouth. “You mean you’re _forfeiting_?” he called after Wrong Logan, who stiffened in the cage door.

“No,” Wrong Logan grit out, not bothering to turn around. “It’s a fuckin’ draw.” 

With all eyes on Logan in the center of the cage, Veronica recognized that she had about five seconds to get him the hell out of there before he goaded Wrong Logan into round two.

“Thanks, Marie,” she yelled over her shoulder, pushing between the cage and the spectators until she nearly bumped into Wrong Logan, and he was _really big_ up close. Wrong Logan was surprisingly handsome, considering his terrible facial hair. She blinked. “Uh, thanks, Logan.”

“Don’t mention it.” He grimaced. “Really.”

“Well,” she heard Logan say, voice raised to capture the attention of the audience, and she knew he was about to claim victory over Wrong Logan and end up in the hospital. 

Veronica sprinted the last few feet and dragged herself up into the cage. “Logan!”

He turned to her, smirking, and held out his hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to Veronica.”

She snagged his hand and pulled, lowering her voice. “Logan, stop. You can’t fly with broken bones.”

Some of his bravado faded. “You’re no fun,” he decided, and she could see the discoloration already blooming across his cheekbone.

She gave him a once over, cataloging the scratches, the angry red spots that would bloom purple by morning. She let her gaze linger on his chest, drag down the little trail of fuzz that disappeared into his jeans. “Come with me right now,” she said, reaching for his belt loop, “and I’ll make it worth your while.” 

Since he’d be too sore for sex by morning, she thought irritably.

Logan’s grin reappeared, even more smug than before, which she hadn’t really thought was possible. “It appears,” he told the crowd, his voice dripping with innuendo, “my presence is being requested elsewhere.”

Veronica rolled her eyes and pulled him toward the cage door. “You’re such a jackass.”

“Yes,” he agreed cheerfully, following her out of the cage. “Hang on -- my clothes,” he said, indicating a bar stool. Veronica paused, impatient, while he pulled his shoes on, gathered his shirt and jacket, and threw another twenty on the bar. “My compliments, Freddie.” The bartender grunted in response.

The emerged into the startlingly cold night before Logan bothered to pull his jacket on, and walked carefully across the snowy parking lot toward the optimistically named _resort_. 

“We should drive back to Edmonton tomorrow,” Veronica decided. “Stay a couple days in a hotel somewhere _not_ here.” She’d happily eat the $300 for the rest of the week. They were clearly both beach people. Beach people didn’t use seasonal affective disorder to justify weird fight clubs in bars.

“Why?” Logan asked, clearly still buzzing with adrenaline. “This hellhole is kinda growing on me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Because I’m pretty sure if you and Logan bump into each other in the street, you’ll beat the shit out of each other again.”

“Logan?” he repeated. “Huh. I thought he was _The Wolverine_ ,” Logan snarked, unconcerned, and followed her toward their cabin, nearly bumping into her when she slowed. “What--?”

“Sssshhh,” she shushed, trying to make sense of the movement along the front of the cabin next door. It was pretty dark out here, because apparently Canadian mountain villages didn’t have much use for silly things like _street lights_. What if it was a bear? Goddamnit, she didn’t think to bring her bag when she went looking for Logan, so she didn’t have her-- “Oh.”

It was a couple. More specifically, Veronica figured out as she spotted gloved hands curled into a leather jacket, it was Marie and Wrong Logan. And he had her pressed up against the door. To the cabin next door to theirs. The cabin maybe _ten yards_ from theirs.

"Shit." Veronica muttered. “Let’s go.”

Wrong Logan half-turned from Marie and fixed his irritable gaze on them. “Can I help you?”

Beside Veronica, Logan tensed, and she stepped half in front of him even as he said, “You’ve _got_ to be fucking kidding me.”

Veronica could see Marie’s hands tightening on Wrong Logan’s lapels to hold him in place, but he seemed as unwilling to let things go as her Logan. 

“Didn’t get enough in the ring?” Wrong Logan rasped, resisting even as Marie opened their door and pulled his arm to get him inside.

Veronica grabbed Logan’s hand, dragging him toward their cabin. “Come on. Ignore him.”

He followed willingly enough, but called over his shoulder, “I’d rather _get enough_ in the cabin, actually. More satisfying for the both of us.”

Veronica yanked Logan inside their cabin before he could escalate the situation. She locked the door and turned, leaning back against the wood and fixing Logan with a frustrated look. “You wanna fight some more with some asshole, or you wanna fuck me?”

That got Logan’s attention refocused on her pretty quickly. He leaned his hip against the small writing desk in that _way_ of his and all but smirked at her. She didn't get it -- he was just _leaning_ on something, there was _no reason_ for her pulse to quicken in response. “I think you had a good time at bar,” he observed, sounding smug. “Watching.”

She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t _spectating_.”

“Hmmm,” he said, and now _she_ kind of wanted to punch him, he was enjoying this so much. “There was at least a _little_ spectating going on. Ogling, even.” 

Well, there was just no way she was going to let him get away with that. Giving him a disaffected shrug, she waved a hand in the direction of the cabin next door and said, “Well, that Wolverine _is_ \--”

“Yeah, that’s about enough of _that_.” Logan closed the space between them in two long steps and pinned her against the door, kissing her soundly. “Now,” he added, straightening up a bit before pressing another series of kisses to her jawline. “I believe I was promised recompense for following a hot blonde out of the cage.”

Veronica snorted, but didn’t argue, only offering, “Take some pain pills,” before slipping out of his arms. She pulled her shirt over her head and moved towards the bed. Eyes dark with lust, Logan watched her strip for a moment before shrugging out of his coat. Veronica stifled a sigh of disappointment when he winced. He got himself out of his clothes, but he was moving a little gingerly now.

He grimaced as he climbed into bed beside her, and Veronica gave him a baleful look. “Maybe you’re not quite up to--”

“Oh, I’m up to it,” he interrupted, kissing her enthusiastically. And if he groaned into her mouth when her fingers grazed his ribs, who was she to say it was from pain and not the simple pleasure of her touch? 

“Logan,” she murmured, “really, it’s okay.” Because he was beside her in bed, at least, instead of pummeled to a bloody pulp, so she would maybe just take her small victories and be happy.

“No, no,” he protested. “I’m fine. You just lie back and think of me in that cage,” he suggested, and waggled his eyebrows at her.

Veronica laughed, pushing gently at his shoulder until he rolled onto his back. “Jackass,” she said, and leaned down to kiss him.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Yeah, I’m really sorry about that. Particularly all the jokes about Canada. ;)


End file.
